


we go together like

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpine the Cat, Arguing, Banter, Deaf Clint Barton, Enemies to Lovers, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, M/M, Sassy Clint Barton, Truth or Dare, Vampire Bucky Barnes, Werewolf Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28552251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: So, here’s the thing: it’s taken years of practice and maturity, but these days, Clint can work withanybody.Except, apparently, Bucky fuckin’ Barnes.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 32
Kudos: 238





	we go together like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyishBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/gifts).



> Comm for [greyishbobbi](https://greyishbobbi.tumblr.com/), who wanted "an overly dramatic fun romp with vamps and weres and some kissing." Hope this hits the buttons for you. <3 
> 
> No beta, mistakes are mine.

So, here’s the thing: it’s taken years of practice and maturity, but these days, Clint can work with _anybody._

He really can. Vampire, banshee, hellhound, dryads—no matter the species, he can work with them. It’s a probably a werewolf thing, he thinks, this strange ability to bring ‘packs’ together. It even works best in groups— he’s the person Phil calls when he’s got agents that just need a little extra push, a little nudge to go from ‘group of total strangers’ into ‘tight-knit team.’

So, yeah. He can work with _anybody._

Except, apparently, Bucky fuckin’ Barnes.

It’s not his fault, really. He _tried,_ in the beginning _._ Clint really, honestly, truly tried. He’s made a million and a half attempts to bond with Barnes, despite the fact that he’s a werewolf, and Barnes is a vampire, and there’s a thousand years of enmity between them. But Barnes, for whatever reason, keeps giving him the cold shoulder—literally, with the whole metal arm thing. So Clint’s given up. If Barnes is gonna be an asshole to him, then he’s gonna be one right back. He’s not above a little pettiness if the situation calls for it.

But the problem with them both being highly trained, highly competent agents, is that they all-too frequently end up being sent on missions together. It’s fine in groups, but slightly less fine when it’s just the two of them. Which is what’s been happening, more and more frequently. Privately, Clint thinks it’s because Fury wants them to be friends, and the missions are his version of a get-along shirt.

“It’s a gigantic waste of time, though,” he mutters, watching Barnes through the binoculars. “Because you’re a grumpy, broody asshole, and literally no one likes you.”

“I can _hear_ you,” comes the grumpy, brooding reply.

“Good.” He scans to the left. “I don’t see anything. You sure this is the right park?”

“ _Yes_ , I’m sure. Look again.”

“I’ve looked three times.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t trust you.”

“Who’s got the binoculars, Bucket o’ Blood? You or me?”

“What the fuck did you just call me?”

“You heard me.”

“I—”

“Wait—” He scans again. “Hang on.”

“What?”

“Ten o’ clock.” He points, then remembers Barnes is a mile away and drops his arm. “Guy in the grey sweater. Satyr, probably.” He squints through the binoculars, looking at the horns just visible through the top of his curly hair. “Yeah.”

Barnes turns as a group of giggling girls walk by him, spinning in a graceful circle. “It’s just an old man and his dog, Barton.”

“Don’t be ageist, Barnes. _You’re_ ancient and you’re out in the field. Also—” he looks closer “—I’m pretty sure that’s a cat.”

Barnes swears quietly in what sounds like Polish. “I fucking hate you.”

“Breaking my heart.” Clint examines the guy again. “But I’m pretty sure he’s packing, so unless you want to spend the next few hours picking bullets out of your undead organs—”

“Shit,” Barnes says, and he suddenly breaks into a run, sprinting down the grassy slope of the park.

“What?”

Barnes doesn’t answer. Clint can’t do anything except watch, fingers tensing on the binoculars. He pans back over to the guy, and that’s when he catches what Barnes must’ve seen—the trails of wires coming out from under his vest, the way his left hand is clenched around something small and cylindrical—

“It’s him!” he yells, kind of unnecessarily. “Don’t let him—”

“I fucking know!” Barnes yells, and then he’s tackling the guy, sending him flying to the ground. Clint watches with bated breath as they wrestle. Satyrs are strong, he knows, but hopefully no match for a serum-enhanced vampire—

He breathes a sigh of relief as Barnes rolls away, the detonator clutched in his metal hand. “You okay?”

“You really care?” Barnes asks, pulling his gun out. He aims it at the guy, eyes narrowed. “Make yourself useful and call for backup.”

“Excuse you, I’m very useful.” Clint picks up his phone and texts the code to the waiting team. “I brought us coffee this morning. That was useful.”

A moment later, a van pulls up, swerving onto the sidewalk with a screech of tires. In a matter of seconds, the satyr is swept away, and the van drives off again, leaving Barnes standing there with an irritated expression on his face.

Clint snickers. “Weren’t they your ride out of here?”

Barnes scowls. “Yes.”

“Huh. Sucks to be you.” Clint starts packing up his things.

“How are _you_ getting back?”

“You really care?” He supposes he could offer, on principle—not like he doesn’t have room in his… _requisitioned_ Quinjet, but he’s not going to.

Barnes mutters something and shakes his head. “Fine. I’ll get my damn self home.”

“I hear the commercial flights aren’t bad,” Clint says. “Only like fifteen hours. Have fun with the metal detectors.” He pulls his earpiece, then, and replaces it with his actual hearing aid, grinning as he imagines the diatribe Barnes is probably giving him right now.

He finishes packing up, then glances through the binoculars one more time. Somewhat surprisingly, Barnes is still standing right where Clint had left him. He’s kneeling on the ground, actually, one hand outstretched towards—

“Oh shit,” Clint mutters, watching as the cat sniffs Barnes’ hand. “They didn’t take the guy’s cat? That’s cold.”

Barnes carefully scratches the cat’s head, metal fingers surprisingly dexterous with the tiny head. Then he picks up the cat, tucking it against his chest. It’s…odd, to say the least—Clint was half-expecting him to bite the poor thing’s head off or something. But he’s petting it, murmuring something as his hand gently strokes the soft fur. It’s kind of domestic, in a way, almost _cute_ —

“Nope,” he says out loud, and lowers the binoculars. “Nope. We’re not going down that road. He’s not cute.” He puts the binoculars away and heads for the door.

Then he pauses, lets out a long sigh, and digs in his pocket for his earpiece, swapping it with his normal aid for a moment. “Barnes.”

There’s a few beats of silence, and then the rough voice says, “Barton?” He sounds incredulous, like Clint’s voice was the last thing he was expecting to hear. It probably was.

“I stole a Quinjet,” Clint says. “I was gonna take it and fuck off to Canada for a week or so, run around in the woods and do wolf things. But I can put that on hold. If you need a ride home.”

Another beat of silence. Then, “I don’t need your damn charity.”

“How you gonna get the cat home, Barnes?”

More silence.

“Meet me in two hours,” Clint says, and rattles off a set of coordinates. “Or don’t. I don’t really care either way. I’m not waiting for you, though. You aren’t there, I’m taking off.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, either, pulling the earpiece out again. Then he grabs his stuff and takes it all downstairs, awkwardly smiling at the front desk clerk as he goes by.

It takes him an hour and forty-five minutes to get to the jet, through various means of travel. The clearing is empty when he shows up, and it stays empty all the way through his pre-flight checklist. It’s not until Clint is literally reaching for the button to raise the ramp that he hears a clanking sound behind him, and turns to see Barnes striding up the metal grates.

“Not a damn word out of you,” he says as Clint opens his mouth, absolutely dying to comment on the fact that the cat is now draped over his shoulders like a scarf, lazily chewing on a piece of his hair.

“I’m offering you a ride,” Clint says. “I’m allowed to say what I want.”

Barnes narrows his eyes. “I’ll tell Fury you’re the one who spiked the punch bowl at the Christmas party.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I can.” He sits down in the copilot’s chair. There’s a hilarious little struggle as he tries to pull the cat off his neck, which ends with him giving up, slumping back into the chair while the cat manages to look pleased with itself. “Not a goddamn word,” he says to Clint, who’s trying really fucking hard not to laugh. “I mean it.”

“Scout’s honor,” Clint says, holding up a hand.

“Were you even a Boy Scout?”

“Of course not,” Clint says, and raises the ramp. “I joined the circus.”

Barnes rolls his eyes. “Just fly the damn plane, Barton.”

“I’m working on it. Don’t get your panties in a twist.” He pulls back on the levers, lifts the jet in the air, and sends them rocketing west. “Should be back home in a few hours.”

“Thank you,” Barnes says quietly, and Clint looks at him with surprise. “For the—” He gestures around. “The ride.”

“Oh, Bucket,” Clint says, grinning. “Let’s see how grateful you are in a few hours.”

* * *

Steve is waiting for them when Clint lands the jet. “Nice work,” he says. “Fury wants to see you about the jet, though.” He crosses his arms, face settling into his _you-do-good-work-but-there’s-room-for-improvement_ expression that he usually wears around Clint.

“Tell me he’s getting fired,” Barnes growls, shoulder-checking Clint as he goes past. Clint has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

“Barton,” Steve mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you two just get along?”

“We did,” Clint says. “For a whole ten minutes. Then I put on music, and he objected, and what happened after that was entirely his fault.”

”Barton—“

“Golden rule of flying, Steve-O. Driver picks the music, passenger shuts his mouth about it.” He stretches. “Anyway. I’m gonna go for a run.” His skin is itching, which is the usual sign that he’s pushed his wolf side down for too long. He’d planned the thing in Canada for that purpose exactly—a whole week of fucking around in the woods, hanging out in his wolf form, and no pants allowed as a human. It would’ve been amazing.

And then he’d thrown it away. For _Barnes_.

 _It’s an animal thing,_ he tells himself. _You saw the cat, wanted to protect it. That’s all._

It has absolutely nothing to do with the soft look on Barnes’ face, or the way he’d curled his fingers over the cat’s—Alpine, apparently—soft white fur, or the way he’d picked her up like she was the most precious thing he’d ever held—

Nope. Not a damn thing.

Steve is lecturing him about something, but Clint’s not listening. He just nods once, pats Steve on the shoulder, and says, “See you tomorrow.”

“Clint!” Steve calls after him, but Clint’s already pulling out his hearing aids, tucking them into the special pouch around his upper arm. He just needs to run, that’s all. Needs to run, and get all this shit out of his system, and then everything will be back to normal.

* * *

Barnes keeps Alpine.

Clint doesn’t understand why. He’s certainly never pegged Barnes for an animal guy. He figured Barnes would walk in, hand the cat off to Tony, and disappear into his little vampire lair.

But he doesn’t. He keeps Alpine, and Clint watches over the next few weeks as he gathers toys and other things, furtively slipping into the Tower with them like he thinks he’s going to get busted for it. It’s comical, really, the lengths he’s going to to keep Alpine a secret.

Mostly because Alpine _isn’t_ a secret. Not at all. But they’re all pretending, for Barnes’ sake. “It’s helping him,” Steve had said, when Clint had pointed out to him that they all knew about her. “To have something that’s his. Leave it alone.”

 _Leave it alone_ is normally a phrase Clint takes to mean, “pursue this until the end of time.” But this one, he doesn’t. He’s not sure why—there’s so many opportunities to poke fun at Barnes here, and there’s nothing he loves better than irritating the bloodsucker—but he just…doesn’t. There’s just something about the way Barnes looks these days, like his rough edges are being smoothed over a little, like he’s finally found something that’s worth spending his time on.

Clint can’t put his finger on it, exactly. All he knows is that he _likes_ it, more than he should, and he’s not entirely sure what to do about it. So he just sticks to his usual M.O., avoiding Barnes as much as possible, and tries to channel his energy into other things.

Except that’s working even less these days, because Fury is _still_ sending them out on missions together. It gets to the point where Clint just knows to grab Barnes’ sniper rifle when he goes to the weapons locker, because it’s just easier for him to pick up both their things. Barnes starts showing up to mission briefings with a coffee in hand, shoving it at Clint with a gruff, “Drink this and shut up.” They both start falling into a type of a routine, almost, learning each other’s movements, and getting familiar with the way the other operates.

That’s not to say they don’t argue and snipe at each other. They do. There’s a whole fight about who gets to use the bathroom first at the safe house in Ohio, and in Seattle they nearly get into a fistfight over something stupid—Clint doesn’t even know what, honestly.

Then there’s the time in Dubai, when Clint pulls a reckless (and admittedly stupid, in hindsight) stunt. It ends up with the two of them being captured, chained up and tossed in the back of a van.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Bucky—and that’s another thing, when the hell did he go from Barnes to _Bucky?_ —growls, sitting up. He’s tied up pretty good, with a tough set of blessed shackles chaining him to the floor of the van. They’re too short for him to stand, forcing him into an awkward kneeling position. He pulls at them, but they don’t budge. “I _told_ you it was a trap—”

“Yes, I know,” Clint snaps, shifting uncomfortably in his own shackles. They’re lined with silver, and they’re burning his skin. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever felt, but in a few hours they’re going to be pretty unbearable. “I took a calculated risk—”

“How much fucking calculating could you have done? I yelled _it’s a trap_ and you went tearing in there anyway, and now we’re here, and the hostages are being moved, again!”

“I said I was sorry, what more do you want?”

“You really think sorry is going to cover this? Really?”

“They had _kids_ in there—”

“Yeah, and they would be out if you’d just fucking listened!”

Clint grimaces. He doesn’t really have a excuse, honestly. He’d been close to the warehouse, had been following instructions, and then he’d seen them through a window—werewolves, specifically kids, and they were being _tortured_ —

“You’re right,” he says, shaking his head, trying to clear it. “You’re right. It was stupid. I should’ve listened. Can we drop it and work on the problem at hand?”

He grits his teeth and pulls himself upright. He’s too woozy to shift, they’d dosed him up with something. He’s not entirely sure what, but it’s making it difficult to hold onto the wolf long enough for him to do much of anything. Clint tries anyway, tugging and pulling at his own set of shackles. He manages to grab the chain, but it’s too strong, and he can’t do much except tug on it uselessly.

“Huh,” Bucky says, and Clint glances up to see him staring, a confused expression on his face.

“What?” Clint asks.

“Didn’t know you could say those words.”

“What words—” He cuts off, flushing red. “Fuck you, Bucket.”

“Don’t call me that,” Bucky says, and he looks amused now, a hint of a smile on his face. “I’m just saying I’m impressed. Admitting mistakes is the first step.”

“Admitting it was a mistake,” Clint grumbles. “I was trying to apologize, and you’re gonna be a dick about it.” He tugs the chain again. “C’mon, bloodsucker. Let’s make a plan.”

“Working on it, Teen Wolf.”

Clint stares at him. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

Bucky snickers. “You heard me.”

Clint’s not really sure what to comment on that, but he’s saved by the van rolling to a sudden stop. There’s the sound of doors opening, and then muffled voices outside.

“They’re gonna have to unchain us from the floor,” Clint says. “When they take us out.”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna just raise some hell, see what happens?” He can’t shift, but he’s pretty deadly on his own. More so if he gets his hand on a weapon.

Bucky shrugs. “Works for me.”

“Cool,” Clint says, and readies himself.

* * *

“What the hell happened to you two?” Fury demands, three days later. He looks kind of intimidating from this angle, but that could also be the drugs coursing through Clint’s body. Apparently, you get the good stuff when you get shot. Blessed bullets aren’t as bad for him as, say, wolfsbane ones, but it still sucked a massive amount, and Clint’s glad he can’t feel much of anything below his chest. He does wish he had a better pillow, though—hospital pillows suck ass.

“Nothing unusual,” Bucky says. “Things went wrong, like always. Clint got hurt, like always.”

“I hate you,” Clint says, and Bucky flips him off. There’s no heat to it, though, not from either of them, really. They’re both tired, and beat up, and honestly Clint just doesn’t have the energy to be biting right now.

“Ha,” he says, grinning at Bucky. “Biting. Get it? Biting?”

“You’re high, Barton,” Bucky says, eyes on his phone.

“ _You’re_ high.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You don’t make sense.” He looks back up at Fury. “Are you here to yell at us?”

“No,” Fury sighs. “Mission report.”

“Mission success,” Bucky says. “Couple setbacks, but we found the hostages. I wrote a report last night.”

Clint blinks. “You did? Without me?”

“You were bleeding to death, the fuck were you gonna add?”

“Did you include the part where I took a bullet for you?” Clint pokes his leg. “Huh? Did you?”

“I did.” Bucky shoves his hand aside. “Followed by a whole paragraph about all the bitching I had to endure after it.”

Clint scoffs. “Bitching. I got _shot,_ you leech, I’m allowed to complain.”

“I once did a whole mission with a knife sticking out of my leg and never said a goddamn word.”

“Because you’re a unfeeling vampire cyborg, that’s why.” He grimaces, puts a hand over his bandages. “See if I ever take a bullet for you again. Nearly died, and never even got a thank you.”

“You didn’t _die_ , you weren’t even close. I was right there—”

“Did too, the doctors said—”

“That you were fine and you’ll be out of here tomorrow—”

“They’re lying, they just want me to be out of here, they all hate me—”

“Because you complain so goddamn much—”

“Enough!” Fury bellows. “Both of you, shut the hell up!” He pinches the bridge of his nose, looking exasperated as fuck. Clint glances at Bucky, half a grin on his face, and is a little shocked to find Bucky grinning _back_ at him—

“Sorry, sir,” Bucky says, looking back at Fury so quickly that Clint’s almost sure he imagined it. “In any case. I wrote a report. It’s with Hill.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms, still looking irritated. “Heal up, Barton. As soon as you’re ready, I’ve got another mission for you two.”

Clint groans dramatically. “Again? We just got back!”

“And now you’re going out again,” Fury growls. “It’s called having a job, Agent Barton. Get used to it. You have three days.” He turns to the doctor, who’s hovering in the corner of the room, looking slightly out of place. “Use the machine on him.”

“But it’s not calibrated for werewolves yet—”

“Then calibrate it, and use it.” He turns back to the two of them. “Three days. Be ready. It’ll be a long one.”

He leaves, then, and Clint scowls after him. “What a dick. Doesn’t he know I got shot?”

“I can’t see how he would’ve missed it,” Bucky says dryly. “All the signs were there.”

“You’re a dick too,” Clint informs him, wincing as he lays back on the bed. “Seriously. Never taking a bullet for you again.”

There’s a long silence between them, broken only by the doctor leaving. It’s not until he comes back in with a ridiculously large and slightly terrifying looking machine that Bucky shifts in his seat and murmurs, “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Clint says, just as quiet, and is a little surprised about how much he means it.

* * *

“Truth or dare?”

“I said no, Clint.”

“Come on,” Clint wheedles. “What’s the harm?”

“We’re supposed to be watching the building!”

“And we are!”

“That means staying _focused_ , Barton. Not playing children’s games.”

Clint scoffs and reaches for the bag of Cheetos sitting on the table between them. They might be trapped doing surveillance, but at least it means he gets to have decent snacks. “Bet you’re just chicken.”

Bucky grabs the bag before he can. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

“Give ‘em back, you heard me.”

“No way. They’re messy, and you get orange fingerprints on everything—”

“You’re just jealous because you can’t have any.”

“Can too.” Bucky opens the bag and pops one in his mouth.

Clint scowls. “Can you even digest that?”

“Don’t have to, the venom will dissolve it.” Bucky eats another, making a face while he does. “Why do you like these? They’re gross.”

“ _You’re_ gross, give me—” He leans over, trying to snag them.

Bucky pulls them away. “Watch the damn door, Clint.”

“Parasite.”

“Fleabag.”

Clint flips him off, but turns to the scope again, peering out. “Truth or dare?”

“Oh for fucks—” Bucky tosses the bag of Cheetos in the trash. “If I play, will you shut up?”

“Maybe.”

“Fine. Truth.”

“What’s something you’re afraid of?”

Bucky thinks for a moment. “Being cold,” he finally says, and Clint blinks, because he wasn’t really expecting a sincere answer. “I mean—I’m not afraid, it’s just…” He waves a hand. “Brings back memories I’d rather not deal with.”

“That’s fair.” Clint leans over and grabs another water. “Your turn.”

Bucky sighs. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Sit still for a whole minute.”

“What? That’s not a dare.” Bucky raises an eyebrow, and Clint heaves a dramatic sigh. “Fine. One whole minute. Time it.”

“Go,” Bucky says, and glances down at his watch, tapping it.

 _Ridiculous,_ Clint thinks, but after about thirty seconds, he’s practically crawling out of his skin. He’s capable of sitting still—he’s a sniper for fucks sake—but that’s when there’s something to focus on, something to keep his mind occupied. There’s no point to this, really, other than to just _sit,_ and he’s about ready to jump up and—

“That looked difficult,” Bucky says smugly as his watch beeps. “Having a hard time?”

“Fuck you, Barnes. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Finish the bag of Cheetos.”

“Oh, you—” He glares at Clint, but reaches over and pulls them out of them trash. “I thought you wanted them?”

“Nah. This’ll be better.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but he starts eating them. It’s worth sacrificing the bag to watch the increasingly disgusted expression on his face. “They’re not even a real color,” he says about halfway through.

“They’re delicious.”

“They’re full of chemicals.”

“You’re full of chemicals.”

Another eye roll. “Really, Barton?” Clint shrugs. “Why are you like this?”

“Attention, mostly.” He glances down at the door. “Truth.”

Bucky eats another Cheeto, looking thoughtful. “Why’d you take that bullet for me?”

Clint doesn’t answer that one at first. He glances through the binoculars, looking down at the building opposite. Still nothing. Not that they’re really expecting anything to show up—nothing’s supposed to happen until tomorrow—but there’s a chance, so they’re supposed to be watching—

“What happens if you don’t answer a question?” Bucky asks, tossing the empty bag in the trash.

“I don’t know.”

“What, does this game not have rules—”

“No.” Clint looks at him. “The bullet. I don’t know why.” He bites his lip, thinking about the moment. Most of it is fuzzy, but he vividly remembers the guy raising the gun, the twisted sneer to his face, the way he’d sighted Bucky. He remembers the sudden terror he’d felt, thinking about that bullet tearing through him—

“I don’t know,” he says again. “I just—didn’t like it.”

“Didn’t like what?”

“You getting hurt.” He suddenly has a hard time looking Bucky in the eye, a red flush stealing over his cheeks. “I just—I don’t know. I could see it happening, and I just…had to stop it.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So…truth or dare?”

Bucky is staring at him, an unreadable expression on his face. “Oh,” is all he says, soft and unsure. “I…oh.”

Clint waits for more, but nothing comes after that. So he turns back to the window, gesturing awkwardly. “Van coming.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, picking up his binoculars. “I—yeah. Okay.” He clears his throat. “Uh, truth?”

Clint doesn’t really want to play anymore, but it’s at least helping to pass the time. So he ventures back into safer territory, and says, “What’s your favorite color?”

“Pink,” Bucky says immediately.

“Really?” That’s a surprise. “Like, cat food pink? You spending too much time with Alpine?”

Bucky laughs. “Like the sunrise, dumbass. When it’s just coming up, and it catches the clouds? I like that.”

“That’s very poetic of you. I feel like you’re about to burst into song or something.”

“Fuck you, Barton, I’m allowed to like nice things.” He leans forward. “Truth or dare?”

Clint starts to answer when movement from below catches his eye, and he puts the binoculars back up. “Hang on,” he says. “That van—“

“It’s just a van—”

“No, look—“ He points. “There. They’ve got something.”

Bucky looks through his own binoculars. “Shit,” he says, and gets up, scrambling for his rifle. “They’ve got the bomb.”

“I see it.” Clint’s already moving, grabbing his bow and nocking a grappling arrow.

The fight’s over quick. No one below was expecting an attack, and Clint and Bucky have worked together so much by this point that fighting together is almost second nature. He knows where Bucky’s going to be, which guys he’s going to go for, how he’s going to take them out. It’s _easy_. Even when he ends up shifting to being a wolf, Bucky just takes it in stride, barely missing a beat as he shoves a guy Clint’s way.

When the fight’s over, Clint finds himself a new pair of pants, then ties the bad guys up while Bucky calls for backup.

“They’re on their way,” he says, jogging back over, and looks down at the five men scowling up at them from the sidewalk. “You good here?”

“Yeah.” Clint gestures to one of them. “He tried to bite me, so he gets the tape. Everyone else is being good. I disarmed the bomb.”

“Nice.” Bucky taps the phone. “Ten minutes to backup.”

“Awesome.”

They look at each other, then, the air between them suddenly tense. Or maybe tense isn’t the right word—anticipatory, perhaps. Clint finds his gaze drifting to Bucky’s mouth, moving over the curve of his jaw, studying the way the fading sunlight makes him look a little softer around the edges. And Bucky looks right back at him, doing the same thing, that unreadable expression back in his eyes—

“Dare,” Clint says suddenly.

Bucky tilts his head, looking slightly confused for a moment. Then understanding dawns, and a slow smile curves his mouth. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, his heart beating faster in anticipation. He’s pretty sure they’re on the same page with this one. “Real sure.”

Bucky moves a little closer. “Kiss me,” he says simply, like he’s not giving Clint everything he wants in the space of two syllables.

“You sure?” Clint asks anyway, because he can’t help being an asshole. “We’re supposed to be babysitting. Staying _focused_ , remember?”

Bucky grins. “Bet you’re just chicken.”

Clint grins right back. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

“You heard me,” Bucky says, and then he reaches forward, tugging Clint into a kiss. It’s sweeter than he’d expected, a little softer, and it hits all the right buttons in him. He wants more as soon as they break apart, wants to push Bucky against the van and kiss him until they’re both breathless with it.

“That was good,” he says, fighting the urge to touch his mouth like he’s an eighteenth-century noble lady or something. Bucky’s smiling at him, looking happier than a brooding vampire really has any right to be.

Clint likes it _so_ much.

“Just good?” Bucky asks. “That’s your glowing review?”

Clint laughs. “Need more data samples,” he says, glancing around. “Which we can gather here, or we can be responsible and wait.”

“Fuck responsibility,” Bucky says. “I’ve waited long enough, I ain’t waiting another damn second.”

“Fair enough,” Clint says, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


End file.
